


Wishing for Bruises Tomorrow

by Froggyflan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Junkrat needs to chill the fuck out, M/M, Murder Kink, Oneshot, Roadhog being sweet, i am ashamed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7501167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat fights and Roadhog keeps him grounded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishing for Bruises Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this post: http://bellyrubbing.tumblr.com/post/145927213178/the-reason-i-bring-it-up-is-because-im-garbage-and
> 
> And I felt a mighty need.  
> AND THEN I TOOK IT TOO FAR.

It doesn’t matter what they're doing or why they’re doing it. He will find him and he will kill him.

It’s a fun game, waiting for him to waddle into his bear trap. He can look him in the eye when he blows his fucking head off with a close range grenade. There’s no fear behind that mask when he does it, and that makes him a little angry.

Not that he’s scared of Roadhog. He knows better. But he’s got a job to do.

When the doors open, he’s the first one out, peg leg swinging as far as it will let him, jumping to the chirp of a car alarm. He’s quick to find a vantage point, lay out his trap, and wait. Everyone thinks he’s lost his marbles. He knows what he’s doing. But waiting was never his strongsuit. It gives him too much time to think, dwell on things he needs to forget. It makes everything tipsy topsy and he can’t concentrate.

He expects the hook that comes at him from below his perch, been longing for it, but he isn't ready for it to snap around his good leg. His chin hits the ground with a crunch as he’s dragged back, the sound of metal and hydraulics drawing closer, and he’s excited and nauseous and hard as a fucking rock.

There he is, wheezing, humming deep and murderous. Junkrat feels it right in his ear, and he wants nothing more than to return it with a cheeky remark, but the boot on his back keeps him breathless. It's steely and heavy just like the rest of him. He wants more.

“I'm gonna make you squeal.”

Fucking shit. The boot stomps with all the weight of the man behind it, and it punches a hole through his bones. He hears the crack, the immediate piercing stab of his own body splintering, and they rip open his lungs. He gasps as one of them deflates, and blood fills his air pockets. 

He's kicked over, the rusty spike on his shoe cold, nicks him in the side and now there's blood there too. On his back it's harder to breathe when his lungs are filling up like water balloons, and it doesn't help when the foot returns, squeezing him down until blood runs out his mouth freely, like he's stepping on a tomato, juicy and wet. For Christ's sake. 

“Suck my dick,” Junkrat whispers, and it's almost lovingly. The blood welling in his mouth gurgles around his words. He swallows it and it makes him want to puke. “Dipshit.”

More crunching. He's brittle and small under that boot, like a cockroach, and that isn't far from the truth. His concave stomach is even more so now, and the pressure is building like his skin is going to tear open and his meats are going to spill out. He's turning him into roadkill. 

“I'm tired of your mouth.”

Something's rupturing, he doesn't know what. He feels like his whole body is getting squeezed out his sides. Labored hiccups leave him, loud and raspy, and he laughs, ugly and sick, until his diaphragm pops. Then he just smiles, toothy grin red and white and gold. Roadhog leans forward, and more blood gushes between his teeth. 

*You need this, don't you?”

Junkrat nods as best he can, eyes starting to roll back into his head as he drowns in his own body. Roadhog unholsters his shotgun and presses it right to his sharp little nose. He'd laugh, God he wishes he could, and tilts his head into it, leaving a bright sticky kiss on the muzzle.

The scrap bursts through his skull in an instant, his brains splatter on the cement grey and pink, and the very moment is played back to him in high definition. He watches the way Roadhog holds him down, commanding and terrifying, his muscles taut and unforgiving. Junkrat is vulnerable and weak and all of it is going right to his dick.

He’s back in the carrier, taking a deep long breath in and out, knees wobbly and heart racing. No one ever gets used to dying. But when you love getting absolutely fucking murdered by someone, it’s difficult to stay away. 

He lets out an exasperated growl and shakes it out. He ain’t getting shit done in here.

The next time they meet, Junkrat sees him from far away, lumbering as fast as he can, steps loud and fierce. He’s looking for him. Junkrat hunkers into his balcony, throwing down the trap, setting up his mine. He knows he’s close by the heavy deep breathing, the grunting from sheer effort to keep his lungs working. He bites his lip and reddies a detonator when the booming crack of a bullet makes him jump and nearly piss himself. When he looks up again, Roadhog is face down in the dirt, and there’s a sizeable puddle of mush and flesh beneath him.

Widowmaker pulls up her visor to reload, the shells popping out with a clink. She’s mechanical and poised.

“What the fuck, ya slag?” He limps over to her and straightens up, because he knows it’s how he gets people’s attention. “That one is mine.”

She furrows her brows, but her eyes look up at him cautiously. She’s not used to him looking so serious.

“We are keeping track of these things?” she purrs, shifting her hips. “I thought we were here to kill people.”

“That one,” he emphasizes with a point to the big hulking carcass, “is mine.”

She takes a moment to think it over, smiles and shrugs, pulling out her grappling hook. She’s not welcome in this hiding spot.

“I shall leave you with your pig.”

As she jumps away, he looks down at the corpse below, unmoving, quiet, wrong. He tosses a grenade at it for good measure, watching it burst open ribs and meat and white gooey fat. It wasn’t satisfying. Everything was ruined.

The body disappears after a moment, the blood and bits gone, nothing but dirt and disappointment left.

When night comes, things are different. It’s maddening. Nights are torturous, dragging on. He needs things to be exploding, noises. He’s half deaf at this point, tinnitus constant and low in the background, but silence he can’t do. He talks to fill the void. He needs the loud hum of battle, the sound of something, anything.

Roadhog pets his hair down, fizzles out the fire, and tells him it’s time to sleep. He can kill him in the morning, he says, as if it doesn’t mean anything. It makes him straddle that big waist and press angry twitchy hands to his throat. He can’t even wrap his hands around it.

“I need it,” he admits, low and threatening. “You ain’t gonna give it to me.”

Roadhog lets him squeeze his neck, his fingers tiny against the vast folds. He’s not going to fight him, not here. This was the quiet place where nothing ever went Junkrat’s way.

“Calm down,” he says, and that makes him want to tear him apart even more. His teeth grind and his jaw aches. It’s starting to take him over.

“Ya cunt,” he growls, and he’s waiting for the look to come through that mask so he can feel it. “Ya ain’t shit.”

Roadhog chuckles warmly and his fingers itch to tear and flay him like the fucking pig he is. “I’m not gonna do it.”

“Fuck!” he screams, pushing down with all his might, which wasn’t anything. Roadhog lifts his head up a little, exposing more of his neck, waiting for him to just give up. Nothing was going to change tonight. He’s going to lose it. “Ya fucking cock, just do it!”

He’s close to begging. He might. His whole body is a livewire ready to burst like a firework. But Roadhog is relaxed, his chest rising and falling slowly, and he’s ready to scream with everything he’s got.

“I’m not gonna hit you.”

“Ya cocksucker,” he hisses, and punches him across the mask so hard it comes off. Roadhog just lets his head turn to the side, and his eyes are so damn brown. He hates this. “Ya piece a shit!”

A huge fist envelopes Junkrat’s thin wrist and pulls it away from them, and he swallows thick, his Adam’s apple bobbing shakily.

It’s too dangerous, he tells him every night. It’s all fun and games out there, but when they’re alone it’s just soft and silent, because in here it’s not the same. 

Roadhog begins to sit up, pushing him onto his back slowly, and he's lost this fight again, nothing new. He gnashes his teeth as he hits the bed gently, his legs spread apart to let the big lug in. 

“Humor me, asshole.”

Roadhog shakes his head, taking his other hand and gripping him gently by the waist. He massages his thin sides, where just a few hours before he had ripped his guts out and spread them about like streamers. Junkrat remembers it fondly. He groans. 

“At least give it to me hard, ya jerk.”

Roadhog may be able to agree with that. He's still gripping his wrist in case Junkrat tries to hit him again, but the other hand travels down south, ghosting over tight muscles and boney hips. It only takes two thick fingers to wrap around his cock and start pumping. He purses his lips and thrusts up. 

“I ain't got all night.”

“Yes you do.”

He always hopes he can rush Roadhog to the big finale, stop him from making him so loose and pliant. He wants to get riled up, wants to stay on edge. The longer it takes, the more likely he'll end up gooey and soft. 

By the time he's done silently frothing about how slow things are going, he's got a big callous finger up his ass, and he shakes like a newborn calf. His legs are open wide to allow the man's excessive girth between them, his stump tucked into the pig’s elbow. He yanks his arm out of his grip and takes hold of his massive paw, pulling it forward and against his throat. The hand lets him do it, lets him curl his fingers around his pipes and makes him squeeze.

“Gimme something,” he begs, oh he’s begging now. He dares him to laugh at the way his voice shudders and his eyes shift away. But Roadhog is always soft here. He works his aggression out in the field, but it follows Junkrat home. He can’t get rid of it.

“Not today,” he hums, pumping the finger deeper. Junkrat clings to the fingers at his throat desperately, hoping they’ll give him the pressure he craves. He moans sickeningly soft before he can stop himself. Roadhog notices, smiles behind the mask, and he burns with shame. “There we go.”

He bucks wild on the bed as if it will make him forget that just happened, but he’s trapped. The finger is working him over good, and he lets his mouth fall open and his tongue roll out. He fights the sounds crawling up and out of him, the warmth in his belly. He always has to fight something.

He twists and squirms and tries to break free, but the strong hand holds him in place, makes him feel good and shiver and cry out. The finger is thicker than his own dick, moving in him wide and unyielding. He breathes wet gasps over the hand around his neck.

A tiny “please” escapes him, and he slams his eyes shut before he can watch Roadhog saddle up closer, his cock all ready to go. The finger leaves him, and Roadhog shimmies a bit up and forward.

This he could get used to. Stretching, burning, full. Roadhog is so slow he’s going to murder him as soon as he can, bash a tire right in his goddamn pig face. The head pops into him and he chokes on his own tongue, his leg kicking out in reflex. He’s trying to lean forward and scratch, claw, bite, but Roadhog keeps him pinned. He’s about to break.

He pushes forward, and Junkrat forgets what he was thinking about, just watches as that monster splits him apart, slow, drawn out, and as much as Roadhog would like to be gentle here he can’t, couldn’t ever. Junkrat lets out a moan that gets louder and louder, more desperate, as it goes farther until he’s breathless and brainless. This is what he needed.

When he starts moving, he’s officially lost the fight, going limp and letting his head fall back against the bed. He can’t breathe or think or keep his damn mouth from drooling all over the place. Roadhog relieves the light pressure from his throat, pulling his hand away knowing he’s done with his tantrum. Junkrat flails out his arm looking for purchase, he needs to touch something, and Roadhog rewards him by leaning over and kissing him, calm, and he’s obedient.

He’s fucked nice and slow, a big hand on each thigh spreading him out and keeping his hips rolling. He’s blurry eyed and unabashed in the way he cries and moans and pleads for more. For once he’s given what he wants, and the man moves in a way that makes bombs go off behind his eyes. His weeping cock flops against his stomach as he’s thrust into, and Roadhog doesn’t ignore it. He pets him generously, and he’d admit in that moment he tells Roadhog something sappy and maybe apologizes, maybe. He knows he said something right when he chuckles deep, and it turns into a full blown laugh, and listening to that makes him arch up and come in that heavy hand with a pitiful gasp and shrill whine.

He’s languid and loose and stop drooling, it’s getting everywhere. Roadhog takes hold of his waist, pressing into him over and over again until he can’t stand it anymore, well maybe a little more actually. He pants into his bodyguard’s face as he leans over him further, makes his hips nearly crack in half taking him in. He’s going to tear the bedspread with how tight he’s holding it.

When Roadhog comes, it’s something he wishes he could see all the time. Wide shoulders hunching, shaking, hips shuddering to a stop as he empties into him like he’s made for it. His fingers squeeze hard enough to bruise, and Junkrat laughs, knowing that’s going to smart in the morning. He’ll poke and press and admire them in the mirror, ask for more. Roadhog will oblige next time.

He pulls out of him, and it’s messy and slick. Junkrat moans loud at being moved, sensitive and still riding high. When Roadhog leaves for the bathroom, he closes his eyes and takes a deep loud breath. 

He’d been played again. Tomorrow would be the same. He’d be murdered a good number of times, rip Roadhog to pieces, and he’d come back to big warm arms like it never happened, and the next day wouldn’t matter either. None of it mattered.

He grins to himself in the dark. It sure is fun, though.

A cold cloth touches his skin, and he’s greeted with more kisses.

“You’re a wreck,” he tells him. He agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I draw this garbage too. Froggyflan.tumblr.com


End file.
